


The Walker

by panchostokes (badwolfrun)



Category: MacGyver (TV 2016)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Cold Open Challenge, Gen, POV Outsider, POV Second Person, dash of hurt/comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:34:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25152487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badwolfrun/pseuds/panchostokes
Summary: You’re talking a walk when you discover two men hanging outside of an abandoned building.
Comments: 19
Kudos: 21





	The Walker

**Author's Note:**

> For the Macgyver Cold Open Challenge, creating my own cold open with a concept I originally wanted to do for the Cairo Day event of “Outsider POV,” and finally...it’s done.

Life is a cycle, and you’re stuck within it.

You’re on the same path as you’ve always taken. Sure you might change it up, taking a left instead of a right, going backwards whether in your route or in actual walking direction, branching out into other paths but none of them feel the same, you always fall back on this particular trail, and there’s always an odd sense of comfort in that, as if you’re returning home.

Seeing the same people, dressed differently with each passing day, wordlessly sending greetings with half-waves and polite nods. Seeing the same dogs always eager to run up to or away from you. Walking by other houses, admiring the lawn decor, making up stories for the people that inhabit them.

The weather is dynamic enough to keep things fresh, too, and you’re able to see things you haven’t seen before. Some days it’s sunny, the sky clear and vibrant, you notice how much more lively the atmosphere is, teeming with wildlife and your life alike. Other days it’s overcast, you observe the patterns of the swirling clouds in the sky, lifting your head up and getting a more full view without having to squint at the sun.

You’ve even taken a walk in the pouring rain--and paid the price with a cold that lasted a week, but you saw worms on the ground, frogs leaping by, danced through puddles and watched dehydrated plants inflate with new life.

Time passes and the grass grows, and decays.

The trees wither and bloom.

Animals appear and disappear, just like stars in the night sky. 

And one day, so will you.

You breathe in.

You breathe out.

One foot in front of the other.

Your mind wanders, but your soul doesn’t. You always end up here, at the end of the trail, having crossed roads and bridges in a transition from city hood to suburbia to the untamed wilderness.

The trail is far less manicured at the end. The grass is overgrown. The gravel is more loose, disturbed. There’s a winding wooden bridge behind you that beckons you, just as it beckons all travelers to turn back. Fall back into the path that had been laid out for you, the one that everybody else takes.

You never do.

You keep going. 

This is why you always wear long pants, as you pass through a thicket of long grass that acts as a pseudo-fence into the field you’ve often dreamed about. An abandoned homestead, from the faded patches of bulldozed buildings that nature has claimed for its own, save for the one lone building that stands; an old granary, its entrance and windows boarded up, the roof patched with holes. 

You’ve always wanted to go inside, and today, you feel properly prepared for it.

Only problem is, it’s being guarded.

An old pick-up truck sits next to it, a faded rusted red. It seems like it would fit right in with the picture.

Only you’ve been coming to this spot for  _ months  _ and you’ve never seen it before. 

You dare to take a few steps towards it, to investigate, until you spot two shadows behind the windshield, and you suddenly feel more like an intruder than an explorer.

You turn back.

* * *

Your alarm rings, telling you it’s time to wake up. You go about your morning routine. Drink a cup of coffee, check your social media, eat a hasty breakfast. You flick through channels on the television, play with the tuner on your stereo, switch through apps on your phone. 

It’s been two days...you decide to go for a walk. 

You’re on the same path as before, walking down the stairs of your apartment and out into the outskirts of the city. You pass through the window to suburbia which calls your name, though your wallet screams “no, not yet, we need more money.” You dream of owning that grand ranch house with an in-ground swimming pools, and army of pets and wrapped around the arms of a loved one.

You find the trail and its many advisory signs. No walking past dark. No vehicles. Pick up after your dog. If you see something, say something. 

It’s all white noise, just as the sights are. The same trees, the same bushes. The same squirrels scurrying up and down tree trunks, incidentally tossing acorns in front of you. The same family on their bicycle ride. The same dog walker who gives you a tight grin as he reigns in control of five eager hounds that just want to say “hi” to you--you so desperately want to say “hi” back. 

The same songs play through your headphones. 

The same thoughts cycle through your head. 

The trail ends, and you see it in the distance.

The granary, and the truck is no longer there.

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, and enter the field, opening up the doors to your imagination as you envision yourself holding a sword and shield, running around looking for fairies and fighting monsters. 

It’s not until you’ve begun rolling in attempted somersaults that you see the truck, now parked on the other side of the building. You freeze for a moment, rising to your feet as you squint, but there no occupants. 

You contemplate a further investigation, but as you approach, a flock of birds fly out of a hole in the roof of the building, which startles you and makes you turn back the way you came.

* * *

Another day passes, and you’re back. The truck hasn’t moved, but now there’s a new sight to behold--one man leaning against the side of the building, tall, muscular, with pointed dark hair as another sits on top of the truck’s hood, fiddling with something in his hands. They seem to be talking but you can’t discern what about. You contemplate walking over, perhaps they are purchasing the land for development--you would hate to see the robbery of nature but dream about something like a nature center or a campground be put in its place--and just as you spotted them, they spot you. The blonde jumps off the truck, and the other man walks at a very fast pace towards you. Too fast. With a hand holding something against his thigh.

You sprint home, and decide it’s best not to walk down there for a few days.

* * *

After some time and attempts at other, more secure routes, you find yourself once again, at the granary, and the two mysterious men are nowhere in sight. You take the opportunity to get closer, constantly whipping your head in all directions to ensure you’re not being followed, and soon your clammy hand pushes up against the door to the building. Your heart races, your breathing hastens, you brace yourself with a multitude of visions of what you might find--but you find nothing. 

The door doesn’t open. 

It’s locked.

Or blocked, you suppose, as the look itself seems to have been blown off. 

You gulp, this is your cue to go back.

Instead, you sidle around the building, peering into cracks but none give you enough berth to fully see what’s on the inside. 

You’re so distracted that you don’t even notice the obstacle that prevents you from spying through the gaps in the boarded window behind the building, until you collide with it. 

It’s the taller man, his hair spiked up in a fauxhawk, a gentle stubble outlining the foundation of a beard. His eyes are dark behind a rounded shade of yellow aviators that would normally look ugly on anybody, but he makes it work. His leather-clad arms are crossed, his lips tight as he sizes you up. 

“Been seeing you come by here a lot…” the man drawls. 

You back away as he takes a step forward. 

“Sticking your nose in places it don’t belong…”

His arms unfurl, though his fists are coiled. His chest puffs out, and your lips quiver as you can only imagine the impact this brute would have--

“Jack,” a voice interrupts. “I don’t think they’re one of...you know,  _ them.  _ I think they’re just lost.”

“Is that right? Are you  _ lost?”  _

You see the man called Jack’s hand drift down to the side of his thigh, covering up something that’s been attached to it. Your eyes wander to his other thigh, strapped with a knife.

You nod fervently. 

“Just taking a walk, like I always do,” you manage to mutter, looking towards the blonde man who seems to be more understanding of the situation, looking at you with a tight frown but with softer eyes.

“Well...put on a pair of jogging pants or somethin’, why don’tcha?” Jack chuckles. “Otherwise, people might think you’re up to something.” 

_ And you aren’t?  _ You want to ask, but decide now is not the time for any sort of wit. 

You simply nod, mutter an apology, and return home.

* * *

You go back after a week spent with no walking at all.

A week spent instead by trying to figure out who these two men are, what they might be doing. Trying to figure out if you need to alert the authorities, or if they  _ are  _ the authorities. 

In a way, it’s exciting, thinking about the possibilities of this little adventure. A welcome distraction from your relatively boring life, to fictionalize these two men as some sort of secret agents protecting something inside the old building, which would be the place anybody would look for any sort of treasure.

If they wanted to cause real trouble, they’d do it in a more public place, wouldn’t they?

Unless they were doing something illegal. Fighting rings. Drug deals. 

While the one man, Jack, seemed imposing enough to be part of that world...you can’t buy that the golden boy would be. 

And more than that, in your heart, you want them to be good, because you’re getting ready to walk out the door and back on that trail again. 

You even put on a pair of jogging pants just to spite the southern smart mouth. 

You have a plan in your head, to leave any anxieties in the same waste bin at the start of the trail. To be brave, fully investigate what those two men might be up to, find a way to break into the building. 

The clear sky and beaming sun give you the encouraging hope, until it’s shattered as you arrive to that end of the road, where you find that the abandoned prairie has transformed into a  _ battlefield,  _ one that you walk over the ashes of. 

The grass is burnt, a few patches on fire. The truck had since moved from the side of the building, it’s now turned, half crashed inside of the granary. 

You’re torn between wanting to get closer, and running away, but you’re pulled in by the continuation of the trail that wasn’t there before.

A trail continued with  _ blood, _ leading you to Jack, who’s crawling down the hill towards the granary. 

He senses you approaching, you see his hand fumble for the gun that’s brandished at your face in mere seconds of him rolling over--but he just as soon puts it down as your hands fly into the air.

“Oh...it’s you…” he pants. He puts a hand to his stomach.

Which is bleeding.

Your heart stops.

“Don’t worry, w-worse than it looks,” the injured man wheezes. “Listen...I’ll be on my feet in a sec but can you do me a solid and check on the kid? Last I saw him, he was in that...building over there.”

Your lips quiver as you look to the building. If Jack, who you had presumed to be the more physically stronger of the two, was in  _ this  _ condition, you can only imagine what the other guy looks like.

“Here, know what?” Jack rises to his feet, immediately falling on you for support that you’re forced to give. A human crutch. “We’ll go together. Don’t want him to get spooked by a stranger like I was.”

You’re speechless as you assist the man in the slowest walk of your life, amazed by how he seems to recover enough strength to pull away from you and run into the building, shouting for his friend--“Mac!”

The blonde man emerges from a space between the building and the side of the truck, his hair matted and tainted with some sort of grease that coats his face, coughing as he waves away the wafts of fumes coming from the truck’s hood. 

“You good?” Jack asks, separating you from the other man. They talk quietly, you can just see Mac nod towards Jack’s wound which he covers with his jacket, you hear a loud, refuting whisper of “I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine” as Jack cups a hand to Mac’s cheek, rubbing his thumb and Mac shakes his head, whispering the same mantra.

Despite their gruff, carefree exteriors, you can tell they are most definitely  _ not fine.  _

How could  _ you  _ be?

Mac then peers over Jack’s shoulder, nods in your direction with a low mutter. Jack ducks his head, before turning around to face you, beckoning you closer with two fingers. 

Jack knits his eyebrows above stern eyes, clearing his throat, before a certain….impressionist eloquence develops in his speech as he waves a hand in front of your face, his bloodied fingers dancing between your eyes.

“You will forget ever seeing us here…” he drawls out. If your heart wasn’t still pumping with adrenaline you would crack a smile. 

“Okay, Obi-Wan, time for us to...beam out…” Mac rubs his forehead, which you now realize has a sizable gash that makes you gasp. 

“Oh, hoss...I know that big head of yours is a little scrambled, but please tell me you’re joking…” 

They get into the truck, and drive off, leaving you with the best opportunity to explore the ruins you’ve been infatuated with for quite a while now…

The inside is mostly settled from the explosion that had erupted within it, you cough as a puff of dust wafts into the air as you push the door open, and with the musky air and limited light, you really do feel like you’re exploring some sort of ruinous cavern in the mountains, rather than an abandoned building on a prairie. 

You take out your cell phone and use the light to illuminate the space, the outlines of old farm equipment and hay bales hidden in the shadows, under layers of dust and debris.

The first discernible you’re able to make out iis a carving into the wall. Two letters.

M + J. 

You remember that on the other thigh, Jack had a knife. You envision him dancing around was if he was operating a light saber as his companion tinkers with the torn apart tractor in the center of the room.

The second thing you spot, directly under your feet, is the only object that’s not tainted in dust and grime, it must have fallen out of Mac’s pocket before he emerged from the building, maybe it was the object he was fiddling with when you first saw them.

You pick it up, it’s a paperclip. Bent and twisted, it takes you a few moments to really figure out what it is, but when you do, it instills a sense of...connection, almost a little pride. It’s meant to resemble you. 

The walker. 


End file.
